


ain't the last time that I'll see your face

by anth (antheeia)



Series: Curse of Strahd: despacito [2]
Category: Curse of Strahd - Fandom, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst, Campaign missing moment, M/M, Vampires, full-fledged vampire!Escher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 00:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20805575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/pseuds/anth
Summary: Escher helped bring Ireena away from Strahd. Of course, as a result of his one act of defiance, he expects death.





	ain't the last time that I'll see your face

**Author's Note:**

> This is a missing moment from the Curse of Strahd campaign I'm DMing.  
I really liked Escher's character so I made some changes to him -- among other things, in my campaign he's a vampire, not just a spawn, and acts with much more freedom.

It’s the first time in years and years that Escher feels anything like that.

There is something refreshing about the raw cold of the misty forest, the thrill of being chased, the needless blood spilled on his clothes for a purpose other than feeding himself, the throbbing somewhere inside him that somehow resemble the way his heart used to beat out of his chest when he was alive. 

It could seem as if he’s scared, his chest unnecessarily heaving as he stands in the middle of a mess of bodies, wolf limbs, and vampire heads and dead birds, and blood blending it all in a dark red expanse. The stench probably keeps away anyone — but not the _things_ that are just like him.

It could seem as if he’s scared, as he waits for the one he knows is coming, and the letter in his pocket weighs more than the shiny ruby pendant he’s left at home — no, _at Ravenloft_ — before leaving forever.

It could seem as if he’s scared but, in truth, he hasn’t felt so alive since his undeath.

He could recognize those eyes anywhere, and if Escher’s own were tinted red when he fed, the ones he’s just spotted are likely red with nothing but anger, _fury_ even. They flash at him from far away and they’re staring at him one inch from his face before he can move a single muscle.

The first time he saw those same eyes, Escher thought they’d be the death of him.

He didn’t mean it so literally back then, didn’t think they’d be the last thing he’d see but, all things considered, he doesn’t really mind.

Strahd’s fingers close around his neck and he’s pushed against the large, sturdy trunk of the nearest tree. It brings back memories, stirs something masochistic inside him that wants to close his eyes and just let it all happen. And maybe it’s the same masochistic streak that borrows his voice to speak next.

“All these years,” he whispers, “and you thought your pets would be enough to take me out?” Escher’s hands motion at the carcasses all around them, fruitlessly, for Strahd’s eyes do not leave his face.

“They were enough to slow you down,” replies Strahd, his voice barely more than a low growl.

Strahd used to be a man, once, and Escher can still see that — firmly believes he can still see that — in the wrinkles at the side of his eyes, and in those on his furrowed brow, in the strain with which his lips are pressed together in a thin line instead of sunk into Escher’s neck to tear his jugular out.

Strahd used to be a man once, and, more recently, he also used to be Escher’s lover. Escher pretends he can still read that on Strahd’s stern face, pretends he can still see anything but his killer, and his lord.

“I’m not getting locked up in your catacombs, Strahd.” Escher’s voice is even lower now, and strained by the grip getting tighter and tighter. He knows Strahd is perfectly capable of squeezing too much, but he’s already decided that it’s death or freedom for him, tonight. If he had to listen to reason, he’d say it’s death or _nothing_, but if he’d ever listened to reason even once in his life, he wouldn’t be where he is.

“Tell me where Tatyana is,” snarls Strahd, “and I might reconsider.”

“You won’t.”

Escher knows what Strahd wants, he knows his obsessions like the back of his own hand, he knows the anger in Strahd’s voice when he speaks of her in the same way he knows the unpleasant spasm in his own guts at the sound of her name. He also knows that Strahd is a liar, that he takes and takes and takes as if it’s all his given right — and maybe it is — and so he knows how important it is that his own single act of defiance is not forfeited so easily.

“Besides, she’s somewhere safe now,” Escher adds, not without a hint of pride.

Strahd is, of course, unimpressed. He keeps himself perfectly still, more statue than man, and only the fury crawling under his skin tells otherwise.

“I am the Land,” Strahd says, sternly. “There’s nowhere to hide from me.”

Escher is not sure whether Strahd is referring to Ireena, to himself, or both of them. He can tell it’s a threat, and a less veiled one than usual, at that. 

Regardlessly, he lets his lips curve in a smile, for if he was happy to relinquish his life for Strahd little less than a century before, not enough has changed for him to forgo his undeath without a smile on his lips.

“Are you sure?” he teases, however strained his words are, feeling hardly more than an insolent child.

“I _will_ find her,” Strahd affirms, confident.

And, somehow, he still hasn’t pulled Escher’s heart right out of his chest. 

Escher knows more than Strahd does, and yet he feels barely less ignorant than one hundred years before, barely different than when he offered Strahd his neck, his body, and laid his soul bare for the taking, gave it all up pursuing a love whose shadow only he could see — back then, and now still. He feels as if he’s still the same eager young man he once was, the one who had no idea of how cruel Strahd was, and he can tell now that knowing it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

“You better make it easier for me,” Strahd says, “if you want to keep that blonde head of yours on your slender neck.” His deep voice crawls under Escher’s skin, almost as if it still retained the same power it did when Escher still wasn’t but a vampire spawn.

Luckily, it doesn’t.

“I’m driven by little more than petty jealousy,” Escher admits, candidly, although he’s aware that he’s telling Strahd nothing new. “But your new conquest… _he_ is different.”

He stares at the expression on Strahd’s face for so long, he watches it come back to life, each muscle moving in a manner closer to a human being than he’s ever seen it, stirred by something Strahd claims is interest, and Escher hates to think is something else — attention, _respect_ even. He’s made peace with his own jealousy, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still haunt him.

“Maybe you should ask these questions to him,” he says. It takes all he has left, all his will to put off death for a while longer, to speak like that and to hand Strahd the letter.

The envelope is open, since someone read it before — its intended recipient. She threw it away, however, while Escher knows far too well that once Strahd has it in his hands, he won’t let go. It’s what conquerors do, isn’t it?

Strahd keeps him pinned against the tree even as he opens the letter, as he reads it, word by word. Escher wonders if even Ireena’s handwriting is the same as Tatyana, if even that brings memories to Strahd. If he’ll keep that sheet of paper safer than he ever kept one of his own lovers.

In a way, Escher expects to be dead, a moment from now.

He expects Strahd to casually slay him, trap him into his resting place and burn his remains without so much as blinking. At the same time, he hopes he’ll bite him first, one last time.

So, when Strahd turns away and leaves, Escher doesn’t promptly realize.

He watches the tall, dark figure morph into mist and disappear and blinks at the sight as if it’s something out of a dream.

Then, he wonders if Strahd has ever even considered him one of his conquests at all.


End file.
